


Mercy for the Greedy

by dracos



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: (more like rivals.. but you know.), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Arranged Marriage, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Espionage, F/M, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Pureblood Politics (Harry Potter), Torture, Wizarding Wars (Harry Potter)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-02
Updated: 2020-06-10
Packaged: 2021-03-02 03:02:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,320
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23958118
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dracos/pseuds/dracos
Summary: "We're already engaged. Makes the most sense for it to be us, doesn't it?""You know they'll kill you if you're caught right? And that's if you're lucky.""That's what makes it fun. Besides, how's that saying go?Carpe Diem?"In which Sirius Black must convince his fiancée Genevieve Gauthier that he is, in fact, "coming back to the fold." In reality, he's a double agent and the Order's spy within upper Wizarding Society. It's too bad she sees right through him.
Relationships: James Potter/Lily Evans Potter, Sirius Black & Remus Lupin & Peter Pettigrew & James Potter, Sirius Black/Original Female Character(s), Sirius Black/Reader
Comments: 6
Kudos: 26





	1. PROLOGUE

My friend, my friend, I was born 

doing reference work in sin, and born 

confessing it. This is what poems are: 

with mercy

for the greedy,

they are the tongue’s wrangle,

the world's pottage, the rat's star.

"WITH MERCY FOR THE GREEDY" BY ANNE SEXTON

* * *

** July 31, 1993 **

THERE WAS ONLY ONE PERSON in the house, but she set the table for six anyway. She laid out napkins and adjusted the tablecloth. In the middle of the table, she put jasmine and purple dahlias in a vase. She ran upstairs and put on a blue blouse and a white skirt.

But she knew better than anyone that the guests would never come.

James and Lily were dead. Peter too.

Harry was with those awful Muggles who thought magic was a sin and who were doing Merlin-knew-what to him.

Remus had stopped visiting years ago. She didn’t know whether it was her fault or his, whether their broken communication was a result of her lack of effort, his anger in her inability to believe Sirius would be able to betray his friends (or, on other days, his belief that she was somehow _working_ with Sirius to betray them), or a mixture of both. Maybe neither. She'd learned, in the growing years of her friends' absence that there was no such thing as intention or blame or absolution or anything like that. There were only actions, and with those actions came consequences.

And Sirius was in Azkaban. Or was supposed to be. According to the Prophet, he was a newly-escaped convict, roaming the streets and ready to take revenge for his supposed Dark Lord. But the Sirius she had known would never have served Voldemort, would have rather died than give up James and Lily, even to safeguard his cover.

 _Sirius, Sirius, Sirius._ He was all she thought about some days. It used to happen often, when she would tune out the world and just remember everything (how he held her like the world would end but he would remain, how he kissed her and grounded her when she felt like she would float away, how he was there, always there, always always there when no one else was). But she was older now, and sometimes wiser too, and those days were few and far in-between.

She had become too smart for dreams.

But she laid out their plates anyway, because today was Harry’s birthday and he was turning thirteen. _Baby Harry,_ she thought. _A teenager._ She couldn't help but smile at the thought.

She ate her meal in silence, the only sound in the small dining room adjacent to the kitchen being the clinking and clanking of her cutlery against the china. After she finished, she folded the napkin and placed it on the table, retrieving a single cupcake from the kitchen. With a wave of her fingers, the candle on it lit and she placed it in front of one of the empty chairs.

She sat back down and smiled. Softly, to herself, she began to murmur, “ _Happy birthday to you. Happy birthday to you._

Once she finished, she leaned her head back and closed her eyes. She could smell her tablecloth burning, and if she didn’t catch it fast enough, it would likely spread throughout the whole house, tearing down the townhouse in a fiery fit. But it didn't matter. 

She’d had a little over a decade to practice getting away from things before they killed her.

After escaping Azkaban, he’d had little room in his mind for anything other than two things: survival (his own) and murder (Peter Pettigrew’s). But one day, after finding himself wandering down several very familiar streets and finding himself in front of a very familiar door with a very familiar woman standing in front of a very familiar window, he realized that in the midst of everything, there was another thought in his addled brain. Her.

She had changed in every way that didn’t matter and hadn’t in every way that did. She still walked with an elegant poise that rivalled royalty and carried herself with the regal airs of a Pureblood. She still favored finely made clothing and the slope of her lips still left him breathless. But there was a dark cloud that seemed to follow her now, and he couldn’t help but notice there was a heaviness to her that wasn’t there before.

As he stared through her back window (a very creepy move, he had to admit), he watched as the fire began to run down the tablecloth and his heart began to slam against his chest. She was going to burn to death, kill herself, and he would have to watch if he didn’t act soon.

But then the fire fizzled out, the tablecloth mended itself, and the unused plates cleared themselves away. The woman never moved.

To say he was a bit shell-shocked was an understatement.

Slowly, like an ebbing ocean, she stood and walked towards the window. He knew he should have retreated, knew it was a danger being this close to her where she could so easily see him, but he was rooted, his eyes never wavering from her face and the shadows the moonlight cast on it.

She stood in front of the glass, within her house, and looked him in the eyes.

He ran.


	2. VANITAS VANITATUM OMNIA VANITAS

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first Charms class of 1978 has arrived.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as always, nothing i write is beta-ed. i hope you enjoy!
> 
> unfortunately, updates for this will be sporadic. luckily, though, i had most of this chapter already written and i finished the rest of it while procrastinating my studies.
> 
> please check the end notes for any possible trigger warnings. if i missed any, please let me know and i'll add it.

_ VANITAS VANITATUM OMNIA VANITAS _

_lit._ vanity, vanity, everything is vanity; a phrase that alludes to a higher meaning that says all earthly life is devoid of truth and is ultimately empty

* * *

**January 10, 1978**

LAST NIGHT, GENEVIEVE DREAMT OF a tower in flames.

She hadn’t been inside of her childhood home, Gauthier Castle, for nearly two years, but she could still recall every detail perfectly. In her mind’s eye, she could see the white hall of the grand staircase, tapestries of her family history and portraits of long-gone ancestors lining the walls. She remembered the high, arched ceilings of the ballroom and the parties her mother used to host there. Genevieve had always hated it, the feeling of getting her cheeks pinched by much-older women who thought she was _such a lovely, well behaved dear_ and much-older men who thought the same thing in a very different context. But she had loved the twinkling lights of the decorations, the rich smells of savory foods laid out on display at the long dining table, the long beautiful dress robes she got to wear.

Then the fire had come. Everything—her home, her mother, the gardens she had run through as a child—crumbled to ash, falling from the sky like grey snow. Genevieve had woken with the feeling of smoke in her lungs and a pounding headache. The smell of burning flesh stayed with her for hours.

It was the first week back at Hogwarts since Winter Break, and there was a tangible change in the air. If pressed, Genevieve couldn’t name one specific thing, but rather she’d say it was a series of small discrepancies that, slowly but surely, began to add up until, eventually she had a mountain of gone-wrongs staring at her. Last week, she’d somehow left her broom, a specially made model—the _Jiàntóu_ 500—from her grandmother, back at her aunt’s house. Then, there was yesterday’s potion mishap. In an accidental case of misreading the ingredients list, she’d put powdered valerian root instead of _crushed_ valerian root, exploding the contents of her cauldron and costing five points from Slytherin (much to a disappointed Slughorn’s dismay and the irritation of her housemates). Then, this morning, she’d woken up late and almost missed breakfast.

Small things. But irritating things nonetheless.

That Tuesday was the first Charms class of 1978, and the Gryffindors and Slytherins had first period together, a sure sign for a storm brewing in the distance. Flitwick stood at the front of the room, hands clasped in front of him, wearing a severe but not unkind expression. He was balanced atop a series of textbooks, adding to his slight stature, and different diagrams of basic spells were on the blackboard behind him, presumably for his first year class next period. 

Lunch was far away, and Genevieve was antsy. She’d been forced to skip breakfast earlier to feed her owl, who had insisted on being mischievous that morning. Luckily enough for her stomach, there were less than five minutes left in class, which meant she only had to go through one more class until she could eat.

“If you would, please turn in your holiday essays by passing them forward,” Flitwick said, his voice clear and crisp.

Genevieve turned to collect the papers from behind her, only to be slapped in the face by several sheets of parchment. She narrowed her eyes but said nothing.

Sirius Black, Gryffindor heartthrob and asshole extraordinaire, grinned at her disgruntled face. There was something sharp about his smile, something reserved only for _Slytherins_ , Black’s self-proclaimed enemies, and she hated it. There was nothing left in the person before her who reminded her of the boy she grew up with. He snapped the paper in his hand once more.

Genevieve levelled him with a glare, sending as much hatred as she could through a single look, and snatched the paper out of Black’s hand, crumpling it slightly in her grip. Wordlessly, she turned back around and gave it to the boy who sat in front of her. She could hear Potter’s snicker, feel Black’s eyes on the back of her head. She made a face. _So much for the Head Boy doing anything useful._ By the time Flitwick had collected all of the essays, lunchtime had come, and Genevieve was near-running out of the door on her way to her second class. Ancient Runes. 

With the way Genevieve was rushing, she had no chance of keeping her balance against the force of the Ravenclaw who slammed into her. She would have fallen flat on her ass had Black not caught her.

“Careful there, Gauthier,” he sneered. Black had dropped his hands as soon as he realized who he’d caught, as if Genevieve could kill him through touch. He was lucky that she had gotten her bearings and was able to stabilize herself without toppling over or else she might have hexed his balls clean off. “While I’d say it’s nice that you fell for me, I won’t flatter you by telling you you’re the first. Or by accepting.”

“Wouldn’t even dream of asking,” Genevieve snapped. “But to tell you the truth, it’d be more of a nightmare—”

Taking a step forward, she froze as her foot met liquid. It smelled like piss, acrid and assaulting to the senses. Her gaze moved to the right, where the Ravenclaw had come from, and suddenly, Genevieve wished she hadn’t looked. Declan Burke, a fifth year Slytherin on the Quidditch team, was on the floor on his stomach, face to the side. He seemed to be lying in a pool of his own greenish vomit and blood, giving the fluids a sickening color. Declan was seizing on the floor, his eyes blown wide open and his pupils dilated, and he seemed to be muttering something under his breath. His skin was flushed.

Genevieve felt herself grow lightheaded. _What the hell had happened here?_ The sight was horrifying to look at, Burke’s quakes shifting the bits of food that he had hurled a bit further down.

But nothing could compare to the smell. Moments after, the odor registered, and Burke’s breakfast—solids and liquids—assaulted Genevieve’s nose at full force.

Lily Evans, Head Girl, walked over and immediately gagged. Genevieve liked her well enough. Lily wasn’t so much _annoying_ as rather _having a dreadful choice of company_ ever since she’d started dating Potter at the end of last year, though Genevieve could admit that Remus Lupin was alright on his best days. She couldn’t quite attest for Lupin’s sanity, though, after he’d spent so much of his life around utter idiots. 

“Oh, Jesus Christ,” Evans whispered.

Genevieve would never understand Evans’s use of Muggle expressions, but whoever this ‘Jesus’ was...there was no way he could help Declan Burke.

Potter was the first to break out of his shock. “Someone get Madam Pomfrey,” he said, his voice strangled. When no one moved, he snapped, “ _Quickly!_ ”

As two Gryffindors scuttled off, Genevieve took out her wand. She stepped forward, but Black stopped her with a grip on her wrist.

“What are you doing?” he said, all vitriol gone. He seemed almost worried.

“If we wait for Madam Pomfrey to get here, he might be dead,” Genevieve said slowly, as if talking to a cornered animal.

Shaking Black’s hand off, she moved to sit on her haunches in front of Declan’s form. His body was no longer trembling, but he was still mumbling. “The Dark Lord…...Spis……….”

“What are you saying?” Genevieve whispered. Waving her wand over him slowly, she ran a diagnostic spell. Maybe if she could figure out what was going on, they could stop his convulsions.

Lily kneeled on Declan’s other side. “What’s wrong with him?” she asked in a strangled tone.

“His heart rate...it’s too fast. It’s irregular too. His body temperature is high.” Genevieve’s eyes widened as she read the results down her wand. “ _Anapneo._ ”

Declan suddenly shivered, his body shaking from head to toe. Then, he vomited blood.

“What the hell did you do?” Sirius’s voice boomed.

Madam Pomfrey scuttled in, her quick footsteps echoing in the silence of the hall. “Oh, Merlin. What’s happened here?” She knelt down beside Lily, her wand roving over Declan’s form. Genevieve already knew what the results of Pomfrey’s spell would say.

McGonagall and Dumbledore came in seconds later.

McGonagall turned to address the crowd of students that circled Declan’s form. “Everyone aside from Miss Gauthier, Miss Evans, Mr. Potter, and Mr. Black, please leave. _Immediately_.”

“He was choking on his own blood earlier,” Genevieve said quietly as the other students shuffled out. Her hands were covered in it.

Madam Pomfrey made several clucking noises as she got to work, using several spells in an attempt to bring Declan back to a normal state.

“What happened here?” Dumbledore said. His voice was calm, but his eyes betrayed the horror he felt. Genevieve saw it, because she felt it too.

Potter shook his head as he spoke. “We just saw him lying there, on the floor. He was...in his vomit and stuff. I think he pissed himself too.”

“He was here when we saw him, Professor,” Lily said. She was wringing her hands in her lap. “I don’t know that anyone actually saw what happened.”

Dumbledore hummed.

McGonagall turned to him. “Albus—”

“There was a Ravenclaw,” Genevieve said. She moved to face Dumbledore, her eyes seeing but not _looking_. “He knocked me over. Had just come from this way. It seemed like he was running from something. Might have been Declan.”

Dumbledore nodded. He looked at Sirius, who had been oddly silent since the two professors had arrived. “Mr. Black, do you have anything to add?”

Sirius didn’t move his eyes from where they were on Declan’s pale face. “No, professor.”

“Very well then.” Dumbledore stroked his beard and pulled out a golden pocket watch from the many folds on his royal blue robes. After glancing at the time, he said, “You may go to your dorms and clean up. Especially you two, Miss Evans, Miss Gauthier. I’ll write to your professors to excuse you from your afternoon classes for today and have the elves send something to your Common Rooms to eat.”

Genevieve should have known it would be a bad day.

Genevieve took free time Dumbledore had given her as an opportunity to catch up on homework in the library. In Seventh Year, with NEWTs just around the corner, being caught up on your work meant you were already behind. Her Ancient Runes textbooks, _Magical Hieroglyphs and Logograms_ and _Spellman’s Syllabary_ , were opened to separate pages. She’d been there for hours and still had to transcribe several passages of _Hogwarts: A History_ using the Proto-Germanic style of runic translation, write three feet on the practice of nonverbal spell use in non-westernized magical settlements, and more, all by next Monday.

She could have spent the entire night there working, but Madam Pince would likely have thrown her out to close up the library. Instead, Genevieve used her time diligently. Despite the sandwich that the elf had brought in earlier, she was famished by dinnertime.

Cordelia Greengrass, Genevieve’s roommate and her closest friend, stood outside of the library so that they could walk together to the Great Hall. Her arms were crossed, and her pale blonde hair was tied up in a loose bun at the nape of her neck. If the rumors were to be believed, Cordelia was half-Veela on her father’s side. Genevieve thought it was that Cordelia simply knew how to get what she wanted while looking good doing it.

“You shouldn’t be walking around by yourself, you know,” Cordelia said, linking her arm through Genevieve’s. “Especially with what happened to Declan. We don’t know what happened to him, an—”

“ _Yes_ , Mother.” Genevieve rolled her eyes, patting Cordelia’s arm appeasingly. With a teasing smirk, she said, “I’ll be more careful from now on. I’ll have an escort wherever I go, whence-forth—”

Cordelia scowled. “Oh, shut up. See if I care if you die.”

Genevieve smiled, a teasing glint in her eye. “My sincere apologies, Madam.” When Cordelia smacked her in the shoulder, Genevieve laughed. “Alright, alright. I’ll stop. Why were you down here anyway? Aren’t you allergic to reading?”

Cordelia turned her nose up. “I am not _allergic_ to reading. I simply have better things to do with my time.” She smirked, pretending to examine her long pink nails. “You know...like _Josiah_. We met up in the cupboard—”

“Oh, _Merlin_.” Genevieve rolled her eyes so far back she saw grey matter.

Josiah Fawley was Cordelia’s latest paramour and a beater on the Quidditch team. He was Cordelia’s opposite in that he was reserved where she was outgoing, studious where she forgot assignments. But still, the couple made it work, somehow, and were actually quite cute. Cordelia never stayed on a boy toy for long, but Josiah had managed to make it eight months. A new record.

As they made their way to the Slytherin table, they were greeted by Eleanor Macmillan, who had beaten them to the table and already loaded her plate with potatoes and beef. By the time they sat down, Eleanor seemed to be vibrating with excitement, ready to burst at the seams.

“What took you so long?” she said, fixing her eyes onto the two of them. “Oh, actually, nevermind. I don’t care. You’re here now, and _that’s_ what matters. Did you hear the news?”

Genevieve and Cordelia shared a confused look.

“About Burke?” Cordelia asked.

Eleanor shook her head, brown hair falling in her face at the motion. “No, no. That’s old news.”

Genevieve blinked. “It happened just a few hours ago.”

“Yes, and now it’s _old news_.” Eleanor seemed to be exasperated with them. Sighs seemed to be more common. “Will you let me finish or do you want to keep talking about Burke?”

In all honesty, Genevieve wanted neither, but the former outcome seemed more preferable to the latter at the moment, so she signalled for Eleanor to continue. By now, after seven years of living with her, Genevieve was used to her friend’s penchant for gossip...and her love of sharing it. 

Eleanor grinned from ear to ear. “Rosier’s marriage contract was finalized! He and Nazia are engaged! Their parents are thinking of a short engagement period, from what I hear. Something about a dark lord? Or maybe a dim lord? I don’t know I wasn’t really paying attention to that part, but personally, _I_ think it’s just an excuse for Rosier’s parents to get Shafiq’s dowry, but I digress.”

Cordelia gaped. “So soon?”

“Yes! Look! That’s why she’s not sitting with us.” Eleanor pointed further down the table, where Nazia was sitting beside Evan Rosier, the man who would become her husband, hands clasped in front of her demurely and a soft smile on her face. Rosier, for his part, had a cocky look on his face. A veritable cat who had just caught the canary. He had an arm tightly hooked around Nazia’s waist, his voice boomingly loud as he talked about her with his mates. In front of her. Without even including her in his conversation.

Genevieve swallowed the lump in her throat. This was the future that awaited her.

Sebastian Selwyn slid into the empty seat beside Genevieve and slung an arm over her shoulders. A Shepherd’s pie appeared on his plate. Selwyn was tall, lithe, and blonde with a perfectly straight smile and emerald eyes. _Spring-colored eyes_ , Eleanor called them. Genevieve had always thought they looked too much like vomit. Selwyn was popular in Slytherin house—and to those who liked to play with “bad boys,” as Cordelia often said, outside of it—and the captain of the Quidditch team.

He had also been obsessed with her since fifth year.

“And how are you today, Gauthier?” he asked with a smirk. His eyes trailed down her form, slowing especially at the slopes and curves of her.

“What a foolish question to ask, Selwyn,” Cordelia drawled, “You _do_ know she saw someone die today, right?”

Sebastian scowled and said, “Watch your tongue, Greengrass,” at the same time Genevieve muttered, “He didn’t die.”

At least, she hoped he didn’t. 

Cordelia shot her an apologetic look. “Sorry, Genevieve, I didn’t mean it.”

Eleanor rolled her eyes. “You’re all such anti-punctilious people.”

“ _Punctilious_? Is that a new spell?”

Genevieve smiled, the wan expression on her face fading slightly. “Bless you.”

“Punctilious!” Eleanor exclaimed. “It means _someone who pays attention to detail_.”

As they began to laugh and tease each other, giggling like children, Genevieve could almost ignore the weight of Sebastian’s arm and Nazia’s pleading eyes calling from across the table. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter content warnings: descriptions of (non-sexual) body fluid(s)


	3. VELLE EST POSSE

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Deals and demons.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One thing that's changed in my AU is that while Sirius is forever at odds with his family and disagrees with them, he never runs away to the Potters.

_VELLE EST POSSE_

_lit._ to be willing is to be able; where there’s a will, there’s a way

* * *

**January 19, 1978**

IT TOOK A LITTLE OVER a week before Genevieve visited Declan Burke in the Hospital Wing. Half of it was due to her responsibilities, which grew exponentially with every day. The professors seemed to think that piling on more assignments would aid them in comprehending whatever senseless material seemed to be on the agenda for that day. Unfortunately, it did not. Adding that to her Prefects patrols and other things, she hardly had any time to blink.

The other half, if Genevieve were being completely honest with herself, was due to her own fear. There had been something unnatural about the way Declan’s face had contorted, the bone-white pallor to his skin. She could never forget the look of him, seizing on the floor in a puddle of his own fluids, muttering something under his breath. For all she knew, those could have been his dying words. And she had kept them with her, told no one. _Who was the Dark Lord? And why was he so important to Burke?_

That Saturday afternoon, Genevieve’s excuses had all but run out, and she could no longer lie to herself about her schedule. She’d finished all of her assignments (past that, even; she was ahead for two weeks), and her week to patrol had passed. As she made her way downstairs to the Hospital Wing, her heart threatened to beat out of her chest. Genevieve didn’t even know why she was so terrified to see him. She hadn’t technically done anything wrong. Still, she couldn't help but feel like something was amiss, like she was missing the bigger picture and it was somehow detrimental to her.

When she made it over to the bed labelled _Burke, Declan_ , Genevieve was shocked to see Sirius Black, of all people, standing over Declan’s bed.

“What are you doing here?” The words stumbled out of her mouth before she could stop them, graceless and almost accusatory. She couldn’t be blamed if she felt protective over Declan could she? 

Sirius gave her a questioning look, as if he had more right to be there than she did. He didn’t, of course, but he did a damn good job of giving off that impression. “I could ask you the same thing, Gauthier.”

Genevieve all but collapsed into the seat at Declan’s bedside with a small sigh. “I came to visit him.”

“Me too.”

Silence fell over the two of them as they kept vigil beside Declan. It seemed that all it took to cool their shared antagonism was a half-dead teenager. If Genevieve had known that fact years ago, maybe things would have turned out differently.

Her eyes trailed Declan’s face. Color had returned, but he was still a shade too pale. What was worse was his body was entirely too still. He seemed to only breathe once or twice per minute—and shallowly at that. He looked like a corpse playing at life, trying his best to fill a role that was no longer his.

“Something’s wrong with him.” Sirius’ voice was clear but tight, as if he was restraining himself from saying more than he should. A self-imposed nondisclosure. “It’s got to be a curse or a jinx or a poison or something. But there’s something wrong with him, and it’s something dark.”

Genevieve glanced up at Sirius. His eyes were clouded, deliberative. She had the same suspicions as he did, but she wouldn’t give him anything to work with until she at least had some semblance of a notion of his intentions. Every interaction was like a see-saw; it required a balance. Genevieve knew this well.

“I wasn’t aware that you held any fondness for Burke,” she said, studying his face. They might have spent two years in radio silence, but she had still grown up alongside him, just as she had with the other Pureblood children. She knew all of his tells, his mannerisms. She probably knew him better than he knew himself. He might have had a Gryffindor heart, but he was Slytherin bred, tried and true, even when he tried to bury it.

“I don’t,” he said bluntly. His lip, which usually pursed moments before he lied, remained still. “I just want to know what’s going on. I snuck into Pomfrey’s office. Did you know he’s not even the first person to end up like this? There were three others, two Slytherins and one Ravenclaw. All of them had raised, unidentified abrasions on their arms. All of them died. Every single one. Except Burke. Don’t you think that’s just a _little_ suspicious? Worth investigating?”

She narrowed her eyes. “What reason do you have to investigate this? In all the years I’ve known you, you’ve never—”

“People _change_ , Genevieve,” Sirius said brusquely. As if to say people change, but _she_ specifically hadn’t. As if to say that she had remained in stasis, frozen, for seventeen years and had never grown up from the girl with skinned knees and cherry smile he had once known. Whatever stab he tried to take at her with the remark hits a dull mark. She’s long past the phase of being hurt by what people have to think or say about her. He sighed, frowned, and turned back to Declan. “I can’t explain it. I need to figure out...whatever this is. Something about this feels important. I need to know why.”

“Why me, then?” she asked. “Evans gets better marks in Potions than I do, and you like her better. It makes more sense to ask her.”

“You know more about dark magic than she does,” he said simply. It was a fact he was unable to dispute but one he wished was untrue. “Evans is a genius, sure, but when it comes to that stuff...she’s clueless. Unfortunately, you’re my best bet.”

Genevieve hated to say it, but he made sense. She was also the only Slytherin who would think twice about hexing his prick off for fear of her aunt’s punishment.

“You ran that diagnostic spell. What did you see?” Sirius pressed.

Genevieve remembered Declan’s face, with its slack jaw and his blown pupils. The pallid color of his skin. And the smell. She could never forget the smell.

She could stomach working with Sirius Black, if only to know what truly happened to Declan Burke. After all, curiosity might have killed the cat….

But satisfaction brought it back.

“What’s in it for me?”

His gaze snapped over to her. “What? What does that have to do with anything—?”

“Oh, come on, you didn’t honestly think I’d help you without getting something in return, did you?”

Sirius rubbed the back of his neck. “I didn’t think I’d get this far, to tell you the truth. I mean, you’d always loved a mystery, but—”

Genevieve smiled wryly. “People change. I deal in secrets and favors now, if you’re willing to pay. Money gets rather boring when you’re already the woman who has everything. Much more amusing too.”

A lie. Her mother was in France, stuck with her father, stuck in that gloomy house over the lake.

Sirius made a face and then nodded. “Yeah.” He sighed and ran a hand through his hair. Genevieve wished he would run a brush through it instead. “A favor, then. This can be a _quid pro quo_ or whatever. You can cash in one favor of your choice, anytime, anywhere.”

A favor? Well that was intriguing. And, honestly, not at all what she’d expected him to offer. She’d have thought he would have said he would give her the option of taking a precious little falsehood disguised, one spun to look like the truth but without any substance. Maybe Sirius Black had changed more than she thought. Or maybe he was just dumber than she thought. 

“ _Any_ favor?”

A pause. A surrender. A concession to a higher power.

Maybe he _was_ desperate for her help.

“Any favor,” he agreed.

Genevieve smirked. “Deal.”

Sirius and Genevieve sat in the library, hovered over textbooks of all topics. They had been there for hours, and closing time was quickly approaching. At the epicenter lay transcribed copies of the medical records of the students who had gone to the Hospital Wing with conditions similar to Edmund Burke. Genevieve’s internship at the Hospital Wing in preparation for her work at St. Mungo’s (provided she did well on her NEWTs) granted her more liberties than most students. When Madam Pomfrey had stepped out, Genevieve had quickly copied them down onto parchment with a wordless spell. Sirius had been right.

Delilah Ewell, aged seventeen, Slytherin. 

Victor Grimdale, aged seventeen, Slytherin.

Barnabas Richards, aged eighteen, Ravenclaw.

And they all ended up dead. 

In the silence of the room, a severe expression on his face as he read _Magical Maladies: The Complete History of Preternatural Illnesses Throughout the Ages, Vol. 8_ , Sirius reminded Genevieve of Orion Black, his father. It had been a little over a week since the inception of their bargain, and they were no closer to finding anything new than they had been at the beginning.

“You mentioned abrasions on their arms,” Genevieve said, setting her quill down. She had been taking notes on a halfblood wizard’s experiments on combining magic with Muggle drugs. “Back when we were in Burke’s room. What was that about? Were they self-inflicted during the hallucinations? Did someone else do it?”

Sirius sighed and rubbed his face with his hands roughly. “Couldn’t tell you.”

“Were they magically produced or done by hand?”

“Don’t know.”

“Was it for a ritual of some sort? Some kind of—”

“ _Genevieve_ ,” he hissed, “we don’t fucking know _anything_.”

She glared at him. Genevieve didn’t quite like his tone of voice.

As she stood and began packing her things, Sirius stood and put a hand out to stop her. “Hey, wait! What are you doing? We still have thirty minutes before time is up.”

Genevieve sighed. “You’re tired, Black. And, frankly, I’m tired too. We’ve been at this for hours. It won’t matter if we finish this later. Besides, we have classes tomorrow. In case you’ve forgotten, it’s Sunday, and I know for a fact you haven’t finished that essay McGonagall assigned.”

The few days’ reprieve she had from Black weren’t much of a reprieve at all.

“I hope that you realize,” Eleanor said leaning in conspiratorially, “that Sebastian Selwyn has been staring at you for five minutes now.”

Genevieve refused to look up from where she was copying runes. Arithmancy was far from her worst subject (a slot unfortunately reserved for Herbology), but that didn’t mean she didn’t have to spend time studying and memorizing all of the different alphabets if she didn’t want to fail. “Really?” she drawled, not truly caring about the answer.

Eleanor didn’t notice the sarcasm and began to pout “Yes, really! Come on, Genevieve. He’s the best looking bloke in our House! Maybe even our year! At the very least, show some respect for us ladies who can’t get the time of day of someone like him.”

“Well you can have him,” Genevieve said, shuffling her papers around. _Where was that translation table?_ She could have sworn she had put it just _right there_ …

“Come on, now, darling. Keep saying things like that and you just might hurt my feelings.” Sebastain Selwyn, prick that he was, stood just behind her, runic translation table in hand. He had a charming, suave grin on his face.

Eleanor swooned. Genevieve bit back a gag.

“I could only be so lucky.” She reached up to take her charts from his hand. “And I’m not your darling.”

“Ah, ah!” he tutted, waving a finger in her face. Oh, what she would give to break that heaven damned finger. Selwyn grinned like an animal putting its fangs on display. “ _Nothing_ in life is free, Genevieve. A kiss, perhaps?”

“It’s _Gauthier_ to you, Selwyn,” Genevieve snapped. “Give me back my tables. I’m working here.”

If possible, the smile on his face grew, like an animal baring its teeth. Genevieve became distinctly uncomfortable.

“You know, Gauthier, your aunt is becoming increasingly worried about your marriage prospects, what with Black the Elder gallivanting around with his _Cadre of Light_ and all,” Selwyn drawled, feigning disinterest in her so-called ‘marriage prospects.’ “One would think a girl like you would be nicer to someone like me.”

* * *

“Black.”

Sirius glanced up at Genevieve as she stood over him, arms crossed. He had to crane his neck to look past Carolyn Stebbins, who sat on his lap with her skirt askew and the first four buttons of her white uniform shirt undone. She had been sucking and kissing on it as they’d made out in the back corner of the library to remain undisturbed. Clearly they hadn’t gone far enough.

“Can’t you see I’m busy right now, Gauthier?” he groaned. “Arrange a meeting with my secretary. I’m sure I’m available next period, but right now Madame Stebbins has my undivided attention.”

Carolyn giggled softly, her lips never leaving his neck.

Genevieve glared at her before turning her focus back to Sirius. “As much as I’m sure Lupin would love the fact that you just called him your secretary, this is an urgent matter. I need to speak with you.”

Carolyn whirled on Genevieve, her blonde hair hitting Sirius in the face as she turned, and glared. “He said he’s not interested, Gauthier. Go find someone else to play with. There are plenty of cocks to suck for you in Slytherin house.”

She raised a single eyebrow and smirked. “Funny.”

“ _What’s_ funny, snake?”

Genevieve began inspecting her nails. They were pristine and painted white with some sort of beauty charm, and though they were rounded off at the ends, they were long and reminded Sirius of talons. “That’s exactly what Bertha Jorkins told your brother when he asked her for a knobjob. You know, about not being interested and finding a different cock to suck. It’d be funny if your brother’s girlfriend found out, right? Not from me, of course. But the walls can talk. Who am I to stop them?”

Carolyn’s eyes widened, and in a huff, she pushed herself off of Sirius’ lap. She picked up her Ravenclaw tie, which had been haphazardly strewn onto the floor, rebuttoned her shirt, and fixed her hair. With a dark look sent Genevieve’s way (which, in all honesty, was like a puppy’s gaze compared to anything a Slytherin could serve when truly irritated), Carolyn Stebbins stormed away.

“What the hell was that all about?” Sirius said, irritated. He didn’t care much for girl drama. He was just here to have a good time.

Life fast, die young, as they said.

“I’m cashing in my favor.”

He frowned. “And this couldn’t have waited an hour?”

“No.” She snorted. “Be real. If I _had_ waited, it would have been five minutes at best.”

Sirius scowled. “I’ll have you know that—”

He cut himself off at Genevieve’s expression, which had the distinct appearance of _amusement_. 

“Quit laughing at me,” he huffed as he buttoned his shirt back up and readjusted his red and gold tie.

There were many easy jabs she could have chosen, like _don’t make it so easy then_ or _quit being a joke_ or something along those lines. But Genevieve came here for a reason and it wasn’t, for once, to antagonize Sirius Black. “I know what I want from you.”

“You said that already. Now out with it. Don’t tell me you want to take Stebbins’ place, Gauthier.”

Genevieve gave him a dark look. “Be seri—”

“Sirius?” he grinned.

If her eye twitched in irritation, neither commented. 

“So, what was it that you needed, Gauthier?” he asked, the smile stuck on his face.

“Date me.”


End file.
